


Sweet Hope (with visage bright)

by QueenMab81



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Sexual Abuse, F/M, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1847161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenMab81/pseuds/QueenMab81
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A predator is on the loose in Whitechapel, stealing unwanted young boys and selling their bodies to the depraved. When they begin turning up dead, Detective Inspector Edmund Reid, Sergeant Bennet Drake and Captain Homer Jackson must see this new monster stopped. When one of their own goes missing, it becomes the race of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Hope (with visage bright)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from John Keats’ poem, ‘To Hope.’ This is AU as of episode seven of season one.

No one notices Hobbs’ absence until the dust has settled, so to speak. The factory that had once housed the boys is engulfed in flames and Edmund is halfway through his congratulations to his men when Bennet arrives, shirt in tatters, face flecked with the blood of his enemies and fear writ bright in eyes.

“There’s no sign of Hobbs, Inspector,” he says.

Edmund’s eyes fly to the building, to the fire illuminating the early-morning sky, and for just a moment, time stands still…

***.*.*.***

_Edmund Reid has yet to sit at his new desk when a knock comes. Of all the people he imagines to find when he opens his door, it is not Abberline, the man who paved the way for Edmund in H Division. Edmund steps aside, waves Abberline in and does not sit until he does. He assumes there is to be a speech about his duties, about how the need for peace-keeping has grown urgent in the shadow of Jack the Ripper. What he does_ not _expect is for the Chief Inspector to begin their conversation with a hushed,_

_“I wish to speak with you about Hobbs, Edmund.”_

_“Dick Hobbs?”_

_Abberline frowns and glances away, his lips thinning into a tight line that has the hairs on the back of Edmund’s neck standing on end. With a sigh, Abberline meets his gaze head on._

_“Yes, Constable Dick Hobbs. I—there is much to be said about the boy, but I fear that you are perhaps already overwhelmed by your new job. I would come to you again at a later time for a more in-depth discussion, but for now, I wish to express my concerns.”_

_“He is young, Chief Inspector, but he is a good lad, as you should know. I believe you hired him, did you not?”_

_The frown is there again, this time deeper, and the shadows in Abberline’s eyes speak of sorrows still new and painful. Edmund finds himself sympathetic despite his lack of knowledge, and takes the seat not behind his desk, but beside Abberline, sensing the need for them to be on somewhat equal ground._

_“I should like to tell you all, but it would be impossible for you not to see him differently were I to do so. For Hobbs’ sake, it is imperative that you treat him as you have always done.”_

_The unease that has been brewing low in Edmund’s gut blooms and he knows with vicious, selfish certainty that he does not want to know all. In truth, he wants nothing more than to silence Abberline before he can say anything further. Edmund knows, though, that he must hear the man through, out of respect for Abberline if nothing else._

_“What would you have me know?” he asks at last._

_“There is very little the lad is not capable of doing with the right instruction. He is new, yes, still green about the gills in the face of gore, but he is trustworthy and he is loyal. All that I ask is this: in matters of depravity, keep this young man as far from those who prey on boys as you can.”_

_Edmund contemplates the request, puzzled. Hobbs is new, yes, but from what Edmund has seen, he’s as smart as he is resourceful. That is not in question. What worries him is how very specific Abberline is being, and a coil of suspicion awakes in his gut._

_“I would send no young man into such a situation without first making certain he can defend himself.”_

_Abberline shakes his head. “Under no circumstances, Edmund. Swear it.”_

_“I cannot,” Edmund replies. “But,” he says, cutting off Abberline before protest can be voiced, “I swear that should there be a time when such a thing comes to pass, I will not leave him unprotected. I can promise no more, and you know it.”_

_There is a long pause, a silence that is weighted with unspoken complaints, but in the end, Abberline only nods as he stands._

_“So be it, Inspector, but it is on your head should something befall that young man.”_

_He leaves without a backward glance, and Edmund remains in his seat, the room echoing with the slam of the door. Dread waits in the corners, hides in the shadows, and Edmund wonders just how long he has before everything falls apart._

***.*.*.***

Edmund expects sorrow and most definitely anger when he greets Jackson with the news of the fire and the possible death of Hobbs. The look of unbridled grief catches him off-guard. It is the kind of devastation that fells a man at the knees, twists his insides out and leaves him a gaping, open wound. That Jackson’s reaction is so severe has Edmund wondering. He’s never seen them together outside of work and would have, if asked, denied the possibility of intimacy because everyone knows that Jackson’s heart belongs to Susan—but now he is unsure. He stands there, hat in hands, and watches with growing helplessness as Susan rushes to Jackson’s side, her eyes wide and terrified.

“E’ll be of no more use to you t’day, Inspector,” Rose says. Her appearance is unexpected, and Edmund starts just a little.

“I had no idea,” he begins, then stops. He isn’t sure he should have said as much as he did, but Rose only shrugs, pulls her shawl more tightly about her shoulders.

“None of us did, I s’pose.”

***.*.*.***

_Hobbs is quick on his feet, both in mind and in body. That is the first thing Edmund takes note of in the initial few weeks of his employment. He finds the boy is eager to please, though not so much that Hobbs does not voice the occasional complaint when he feels put upon. There is not a single man at the precinct that does not genuinely care for the boy, but of everyone it is Jackson, Bennet and Edmund whom have formed the closest bond with him._

_In truth, Edmund can speak only for himself, but if questioned, his opinion would be as follows:_

_Bennet finds him to be companionable if a bit falsely cheery in the rare occurrences they lunch together, as though he is forcing himself to laugh when he does not quite mean it. It is amusing to watch them interact, to see the original strain of unused muscles twisting themselves into an unfamiliar expression slowly become something more genuine. When Bennet mentions Hobbs in private, it is with the fondness of an uncle—his mouth curls up at the corners and there’s softness to his gaze that Edmund’s never seen before, didn’t even think was possible. More oft than not, Edmund finds himself steering the conversation toward Hobbs often, just to watch the observe the changes that come over his friend. In public, Bennet he is careful to maintain a respectable,_ professional _distance, but even then, it is easy to see his affection for the boy._

_Jackson is another staunch supporter of Hobbs; for all that Edmund does not understand it. Their interactions are far and few between, but when they are together, Jackson teases with a ferocity Edmund would find worrisome from others. The incident with the ephedrine left quite a mark on Hobbs, though Edmund has yet to find out why. All he knows is that now, when Jackson stretches a lazy arm about Hobbs’ shoulders or stands too close, the wariness that haunted Hobbs’ eyes before is gone. He relaxes into the touches and does not withdraw as quickly as he used to._

_Edmund is careful never to ask—never to think about—why a young man as pleasant-faced and bright as Hobbs does not care for physical affection. He bears handshakes with an unhappy tightness to his mouth, pulls away when strangers draw near. There are secrets in his eyes, secrets that have nothing to do with the common vanity of men and women; the usual lies to cover indiscretions and vulgarities of the character. They are—Edmund allows himself to think, just once—the kind of secrets that send children screaming at the night when their dreams turn dark and hurtful._

_“Am I interrupting, Inspector?”_

_Edmund shakes himself from his thoughts and straightens in his seat. His head is aching and his body is sore, but their latest case allows no chance for proper rest._

_“No. Sorry, I was lost in thought. What do you have for me?” Edmund pushes aside his concerns and waits as Hobbs settles a stack of folders before him._

_Hobbs stands at attention, his fingers loose but his arms straight. “The paperwork you asked after, on the old warehouse. The owner swears he hasn’t sold it off and that he was unaware it found use. He’s waiting for you up front, sir. I figured it’d be best to bring him in now, rather than risk him running off if he’s lying.”_

_He looks tense as he speaks, a worried tilt to his brow. Edmund offers him a small smile. “You did well, lad. Where is Bennet?”_

_“On his way, sir. I ran into him a few streets back. He was wrapping up some business.”_

_Business. Edmund can only guess at what this means, but he trusts that Bennet will arrive when he is needed. With a wave of his hand, Edmund dismisses Hobbs._

_“Thank you, Hobbs. I’ll find you when I have need of you again.”_

_The words are clumsy, and the pleased look that had lit upon Hobbs’ face slips away. Before Edmund can correct the error, though, Hobbs is slipping away and the door is swinging shut. With a sigh, Edmund shuffles through the files before him, skimming the notes made in Hobbs’ hand. They are thorough and concise, exactly what Edmund would have asked for. Further praise would not be remiss, but Edmund already knows he will not give it. By the time there is opportunity, he will have forgotten and the moment will have passed._

***.*.*.***

It takes all night for the flames to die out, even with the help of fire brigade. The ashes are still smoldering in some places, the building little more than a burned out husk. Edmund leads the way, already certain of what he will find. The bodies they pull from the wreckage are unrecognizable, the clothing burned away and the flesh charred or melted, twisting the bodies into horrible caricatures of who they once were. Even so, when what is left is laid out, all are accounted for save two, and Edmund is unsure whether he should be relived or afraid.

“Even without their feet missing, none of these boys would be of the right height,” Bennet murmurs. He glances to the left, where Jackson is leaning against a tree, his face soot-covered and his clothes a mess. Susan is there as well, one hand gripped tight on his sleeve as though she fears he too will disappear.

“No, they would not, and the men we unearthed were untouched by the flames. Twenty-seven bodies and not a single one is our missing constable.” _Or our missing suspect_ , he does not add. The words hang in the air regardless, haunting and condemning in turns.

***.*.*.***

_The first victim was a boy of just twelve, his body stuffed half into a sewer with bruises lining his arms and legs. The second was in his late teens and the third some few years younger. Seven boys have found their way into Precinct H, none with the ability to speak in words of the atrocities forced upon them. Their tale is told in the marks on their bodies, the horror clouding eternally clouding their eyes. Edmund is in the dead room with Jackson when Abberline finds him, and he knows just from the expression on the older man’s face whatever is said next will be far removed from pleasant._

_“I do not know how you kept these attacks from me for so long, but you will keep Constable Hobbs out of this investigation,” Abberline says the moment the door is shut._

_Jackson looks between them, a frown darkening his features. “He’s a bit older than the lads coming in here. I don’t think the boy’s at any risk.”_

_Abberline shuts him up with a look that has even Edmund stepping back a pace. “Do not assume future victims can be determined by the age of the most current. I can guarantee you that if it suits the kind of animal that preys on young boys to prey on one whom only _looks_ young, then age is not of consequence. You will keep Hobbs out of this, or there will be hell to pay.”_

_He does not wait for a response, but storms away at the same moment Bennet appears. Edmund looks after him, then greets Bennet with a tight smile._

_“Tell me you are here with good news.”_

_Bennet nods once. “There’s been talk. Of a warehouse full of boys, and rooms to bed them in.”_

_His face twists, and Edmund is reminded all over again of the kind of man Bennet is: he can and readily will rend his enemies from limb to limb, but has a heart big enough to fall in love with a prostitute, despite the foolishness in doing so. This is a man who does not understand how any human being can prey upon such innocence, nevermind how often such depravity passes through their streets and finds its way to this very table._

_“It is as we suspected, then. The address?”_

_“Is one we looked into a few weeks back. Best of my understanding is, they clear out every three to four weeks and set up shop in a new location. We’re either a few steps ahead of them…”_

_“Or behind. It is possible they aware of our searches and are moving into the places after we clear them.” Edmund slams his hand down upon the table and bites back the torrent of angry words that want to follow. His gaze shifts to the body at his side and he closes his eyes, sick at the thought of how the boy must have suffered before death found him._

_It is Jackson who breaks the silence. “We know that so far, no victim has been over the age of seventeen. Of the seven victims, four had dark hair and dark eyes. We can therefore conclude that that is the preference, though not a requirement.”_

_“No one has come forward to claim them, so it is safe to bet they are orphans.”_

_Jackson shakes his head. “Or sold. The youngest—” He breaks off, perhaps unwilling to recall just how young the victim had been._

_Edmund does not blame him. The very idea that a child was forced into such a life at such tender an age leaves a sour taste upon Edmund’s tongue and a sharp hollowness in his gut. He wants to find the men responsible and see them suffer until the end of their days._

_“Sold or orphaned; unwanted all the same.” Bennet’s lips curl back in a snarl, and he begins to pace, his usual air of deadly calm vacated._

_The sound of approaching footsteps has Edmund yanking the sheet into place. So far, no one outside of those already in the room has seen the bodies in their exposed state. It has not been easy to keep it so, but Edmund wants nothing more than to spare the rest of his men the sight. He is thankful for his quick thought when the newcomer is none other than Hobbs._

_“What is it?” Edmund snaps. He feels raw and on edge, but when he sees the scowl on Jackson’s face, he takes a deep breath and strains to sound calmer when he speaks again. “What brings you here, Hobbs?”_

_“Sorry, sir. It’s only that—well, you see, I thought perhaps to see if any communications were coming through, sir. I was checking the machine a couple of times a day, but the real activity seems to happen at night, and what came through…” He stutters a bit when Edmund steps forward, nervous but determined. “I stayed with the machine six nights previous, then again three nights after then, then again last night. The messages are coded, sir, and nothing I’ve seen before.”_

_“Then we must find someone who can decipher them,” Edmund says. He’s halfway turned toward Jackson when he spies Hobbs’ advance, and for just a second he freezes. It’s the sight of Hobbs’ fingers, pale and slender, grasping at the edge of the sheet that has all three of them leaping into action._

_“Don’t!” Edmund shouts, Bennet a close echo._

_Hobbs flinches away, his fingers still clutching the sheet. It is Jackson who stops him, his hand closing around Hobbs’ wrist, a wry smile on his face._

_“Haven’t closed him up yet,” he says, his voice low with regret. “No need for you to see that. But if you’ve a mind for it, I could use your help a little later. I’m testing some of the powder found in the lad’s pockets.”_

_Hobbs starts to nod, then shakes his head. “No, sorry. That’s—” His lips tilt downward and he shoots Edmund an apologetic frown that makes little sense until he continues. “I figured out the code, sir. Took a bit of work, but I stayed at it all night.” He holds out a piece of paper, the corners smudged with ink and crumpled. “It’s nothing urgent, yet, but they’ll be sending out a second message tomorrow night with a new location.”_

_“Who?” Edmund demands, even though he knows the answer._

_“Couldn’t say, sir. The messages are sent from a different place each time.”_

_That gives Edmund pause. “Then how do you know they are about the same thing.”_

_“I didn’t, not at first, sir. Took down about fifteen messages that had nothing to do with any of this, but it seemed the right thing to do.”_

_Edmund lets out a breath and offers Hobbs a genuine smile this time. “You did well, Hobbs. Thank you.”_

_“See? You’re top notch, kid.” Jackson reaches out and ruffles Hobbs’ hair before he seems to realize he’s got an audience. His grimaces, but doesn’t move away from where he stands between Hobbs and the body._

_“Right,” Edmund says after another pause. “Bennet and I will look into the messages. Hobbs, you may go home. You did a fine job, and now it’s time for you to get some much-deserved sleep.”_

_“Oh, right. Yes, sir.” Hobbs is at the door when Jackson calls out._

_“Hang on a sec. Let me clean up and I’ll walk out with you. I need to make a stop for some more supplies.”_

_It’s a bold-faced lie, but Edmund doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he watches as Jackson sheds his work apron, washes his hands and slings a companionable arm about Hobbs’ shoulders. When they are gone and only Bennet remains behind, Edmund lets out a long sigh and shakes his head._

_“Come on, then. We’ve not a moment to lose if we are to put a stop to this mess before another child dies.”_

***.*.*.***

Abberline is waiting for them when they arrive at the precinct, and Edmund spares only a moment to remind himself that in the end, it was _Abberline_ who decided Hobbs was their only chance. Not Edmund, or Bennet or even Atherton. None of this mess is Edmund’s doing, though it will be still be he who pays dearly for it. In the last month alone, he has come to see a side of young Hobbs he never suspected, a vulnerability that has Edmund once more aching for a child he was never meant to have.

They trickle in, Bennet first, then Edmund, then the others. Jackson is last, his expression blank, his eyes unfocused as he’s guided toward a chair by a grim-faced Atherton. Abberline watches him with sharp eyes, and when he looks to Edmund, resigned acceptance has added ten years to his face.

“Did he suffer?”

The question echoes through Edmund’s head, and he almost wishes he could say yes. Yes would mean Hobbs is dead, but it would also mean no further ill could befall him.

“My men have been alerted and the news spread. Hobbs is alive, but he is missing. We—we fear the worst.”

Abberline lets out a closed-mouthed wail; the hair on the back of Edmund’s neck rises and his skin prickles. Abberline collapses back into the chair from which he had risen, his hands covering his ashen face. No one speaks in the face of his grief, but after a moment, Edmund goes to him. He urges Abberline up and into his office, waving in Jackson, who has only just roused himself. Bennet is just behind him, but Atherton makes no move to follow, and so Edmund shuts the door.

“We lost two of our men tonight, Chief Inspector. If we are very lucky, the men out searching now will find Hobbs before anyone can bring him harm.”

“I should have sent him away.”

Edmund frowns. “You could not have known this would happen.”

Abberline laughs, the sound cold and brittle. “The man you have been hunting is not new to the market of selling young boys. He worked with another man several years ago. Not here, of course, but in the district surrounding King Street in Southampton. An orphanage lost all its money and the occupants were cleared out. Of the forty children left homeless, nineteen were boys… and all went missing. Over the course of three years, they began turning up, most of them dead. Four years after the disappearance of the Saint Augustine Orphan Boys, an unholy discovery was made, a sight no man would wish to see. Twenty-nine boys were pulled from the abandoned warehouse of various heritage, all of them abused and marked beyond belief. Only three were found alive, and of those children—” He breaks off, and it seems as though he will not continue. When he speaks again, his words chill Edmund to the bone. “Of those three children, only young Hobbs survived the treatment of his wounds, and when he woke, he remembered nothing.”

Jackson makes a sound like a dying man and the blood roars in Edmund’s ears. He sways in place, dizzy from trying to process what remains unsaid.

“How old?” Jackson demands. “How goddamn old was he?”

Abberline looks sick as says, “Just six when he disappeared, ten when he was found and twelve when he was released from Saint Francis Hospital. He spent a year under the guidance of a therapist, but when he remained ignorant of what had occurred, it was decided his lack of memory was for the best.”

“You speak as though you were there, but you could not have been.”

There is a tremor in Abberline’s hand as he drags it over his face. “I was not, no, but a good friend of mine was. He was first on the scene and had to quit work not long after when his health began to deteriorate. He swore he could hear their screams in his head though none were conscious when he found them. It all but drove him mad, in the end.”

Bennet asks what Edmund cannot. “What of after? How did he come to live here? He’s got a family, has he not?”

Abberline shakes his head. “Not anymore. The couple that took him in when he was first released from the hospital died two years ago. From what I understand, though he has no actual memories of what happened to him, the first few years after he came to live with them were not easy ones. The doctors warned that it would take little to trigger his memories, and in truth, his nights were plagued with terrors of the horrors he survived, but his days were peaceful. He grew up bight, curious and eager to please. We thought that would be enough, that he would never be forced to relive that chapter in his life.”

“And then you allowed us to hand him over to the man who turned him into a—a child wh—” Edmund cuts himself off with a shake of his head, unwilling to say the word, to damn Hobbs in such a way. “When we have found him, Abberline, pray that I allow the chance to beg forgiveness.”

***.*.*.***

_What they learn, three days later, is that they are the ones behind in this terrible game. They arrive at the warehouse to find the ashes in the fire pits still hot, the makeshift beds still damp with the sweat and excess of the men who used them. They make certain there are no boys to be found before Hobbs is allowed on the scene. Edmund stays him at the entryway with a raised hand, then beckons him close._

_“Whoever was here, they were not long ahead of us.”_

_Hobbs eyes brighten with the hope of further work. “Do you wish me to follow after? I could pick up their trail, perhaps.”_

_It pains him to deny Hobbs the chance to prove himself further, knows what it will do to the boy’s pride and sense of self-worth, but there is no other recourse. “No. No, I want you to return to the precinct and fetch me Atherton and four others. They will follow the trail. I need you at the machine.” At the look of confused hurt on Hobbs’ face, Edmund reaches for him, his grip sure. “I need you at the machine because you are the only one I trust. Already you have proven yourself quite the untrained master. Do not fail me, Hobbs. Please.”_

_Hobbs nods and turns away, the hitch in his step more pronounced now after a long day on his feet. Edmund’s thoughts turn once more to the day they came so close to losing Hobbs, to the sight of a bedraggled Jackson staggering into Edmund’s entryway, Hobbs’ too-still form clutched in his arms and misery writ across his face, and he is thankful all over again that the boy lived despite his attacker’s intentions. He is not the only one to think along such a vein; Edmund can see the same thoughts in the eyes of Bennet and Jackson, senses they too are sparing a moment to send thanks to whatever higher power they lay their faith in._

_“He should not even be here, sir,” Bennet says when Hobbs is well gone._

_“No, he should not, but I had no reason to leave him behind. Not without rousing his suspicions. As it is, the lack of men available means that he has come too close to discovery just what is being done to these boys.”_

_Jackson moves closer, dropping into a crouch beside one of the beds. “How he hasn’t yet figured it out baffles me, nor how there’s been no speak of it on the streets. It’s uncommon for Best not to be in top form with the articles he prints, and this is just the sort of thing he would take great pleasure in exposing.”_

_“Under normal circumstances, he would, but even he sees the advantage in keeping this from the public. Bad enough whores being ripped, but children sold into sexual slavery? As to Hobbs, it is only a matter of redirecting in his attention when he thinks to press for details.”_

_Bennet and Jackson share a look before Jackson speaks. “He won’t be put off so easily for long. He’s a smart boy, Edmund. Give him credit where it’s due.”_

_Edmund glances away, turns his attention to the warehouse and the evidence it bears. “Gather all that you can. Let us see what can be discovered of the men who think to do our children wrong._

***.*.*.***

As the days slip into weeks, Best proves himself a friend of Hobbs, if not the entirety of the precinct. He spends his time searching the papers delivered special from all over London for mentions of the boys gone missing, cuts out every article and assists in creating a timeline. It is with his help that Edmund is able to find a pattern in all the horror, to mark the path that led their suspect from one rookery to the next.

He delivers the news to a room full of men thirsting for retribution. It is because of Hobbs that they have drawn so close together, and the protective instinct he has unwittingly instilled in them makes them a force to be reckoned with. They are, right now, blood hounds just waiting for a scent.

“There are six homes in immediate danger of being shut down. Of those, two are homes solely for girls. He will not bother with these, that we can count on. Remember, he has just lost all of the boys he was using, save Hobbs, so he will want to collect as many new ones as possible. That leaves the three homes dedicated only to the care of boys.

“We will be sending word to all of the homes in the neighboring areas, but these three specifically we will contact in person. We cannot risk a message being intercepted.”

“And who will you be sending?” Jackson shifts his stance, pushes the brim of his hat up just enough to reveal his eyes as he speaks. 

To the untrained eye, he appears relaxed as he leans against the wall, but Edmund can see the fire in his eyes and the tight coil of muscle in his arms that promises pain and death to those who would come between Jackson and his retribution. It is on the tip of Edmund’s tongue to remind him not to lose hope. Hobbs returned to them once, he may very well do so again.

Hope is a terrifying thing.

“We will split up,” Edmund says at last. “George Lusk has agreed to work with us. We cannot send our constables into another precinct’s territory, not without proof, which we sorely lack at the moment. Instead, the vigilantes will go in groups of three to each of the homes with myself, Jackson and Bennet in attendance. Only we three will return, as they will remain behind as protection.”

“And Hobbs, sir?” 

There is a tic in Bennet’s cheek that belies the easy tone with which he speaks. Edmund does not pity the man who will have to face these men of his. He deserves no less than the drawn out death that will be delivered unto him.

“If we are lucky, then our man will arrive while we are there and Hobbs will be returned to us. If we are not…” If they are not, they will hunt the bastard down, tear him to pieces and bring their boy home.

Jackson nods and slips away, unconcerned as to the rest of the meeting. Edmund watches him go, gives his silent assent when Bennet looks to follow. They know the rest of what is to be said. Now they must prepare for the worst as they lay their hope and faith for best.

The rest of the men stand ready and they take their orders without complaint. Edmund can see in their eyes how much each man wishes to claim their pound of flesh from their suspect. No, Edmund thinks to himself. Not a suspect, not anymore. The man they chase, Thomas Atwater, is a criminal of the worst kind, through and through, no matter the lack of true evidence against him. In the time since the fire, he has managed to snatch the occasional child, but now there is prize dangling before him and they do not doubt he will take the bait. 

When he does, the men of H Division will hunt him down like dogs and they will tear him to pieces.

***.*.*.***

_In the dead room, Jackson lays out strips of paper, sets vials in stands and paces the floor. Hobbs is with him, bent down so he can stare into a flask filled with milky fluid. He straightens when he sees Edmund, a worried frown drawing his brows together. He looks young, too young to wear a police uniform, and Edmund finds himself offering up a reassuring smile before he makes a conscious decision to do so._

_“At ease, Hobbs,” Edmund says._

_The use of his name in place of his title relaxes him, and he nods before going back to what he was doing. “I think the mixture is ready, Jack—Captain.”_

_Hobbs blushes, the faintest hint of color spread high over his cheeks and staining the tips of his ears. Edmund finds it fascinating, though he has no idea why._

_Jackson leaves off what he is doing and brings with him a glass dropper. Under his watchful eye, Hobbs extracts some of the fluid and applies it to the strip of paper clutched between his thumb and forefinger. Edmund has no clue what it means when the paper changes color, but it has his boy humming, thoughtful and curious while Jackson mutters under his breath, words indecipherable._

_“Bad?”_

_“Poison,” Jackson grunts. “Assumed as much, but it’s a powerful poison, more so than I thought. It explains the causes of death in the boys, though. It takes only an hour to become untraceable in their stomachs, which is why it took me so long to figure it out.”_

_Edmund shifts. “Bad, then.”_

_The look Jackson sends his way is terrifyingly vicious. “Well, now, I suppose that depends on who ingests it.”_

_Hobbs looks between them, and though he says nothing, there is stiff set to his jaw and a brightness to his gaze. Though he still remains in the dark as to the full details of what has been done to the victims, he knows enough to feel the same as Jackson._

_“There was more, too, sir. At the warehouse, I mean. Captain Jackson and I found several bags of it.”_

_“Where—”_

_“We figured it’d be safest to have it locked up in your office,” Jackson replies, cutting Edmund off. “The only other person who knows it’s there is Bennet. Speaking of…” Jackson glances at his watch. “It’s training time, kid.”_

_A hint of uncertainty passes over Hobbs’ features. Since his recovery, Bennet has taken to training for an hour every day in hand-to-hand, and well as with a knife. They will all be damned if their boy gets himself stuck and almost killed again. Just the memory of his face, pale and cold, has Edmund shuddering, his eyes closing in a vain attempt to block out the image. Warm fingers press against his wrist and when Edmund opens his eyes again, it is to find Hobbs watching him, expression sad._

_“I’m okay, you know,” Hobbs whispers._

_Behind him, Jackson glares down at the table, no doubt recalling his dive into the river, his belief that he was too late. A minute later, perhaps he would have been, but then, had Goodnight’s knife found its destination, Hobbs would have been as good as dead anyway, paralyzed for the rest of his life, a wretch unable to care for himself._

_Edmund allows himself a moment of weakness and pulls the boy in, resting their temples against one another. He breaths in the fresh scent of youth, then pulls away._

_“Best not to keep our sergeant waiting.” Then he recalls the reason he is here and adds, “Emily and I were hoping you would join us for dinner?” He phrases it as a question, always, certain that this will be day Hobbs refuses. He is pleased by the wide smile that greets his offer._

_“I’d love to.”_

_He’s gone in the next breath, the door closing with a quiet snick behind him. Jackson clears his throat, crosses the room to where a small satchel sits on the counter._

_“Here’s more of the same. I took enough for several tests, but it only took three to learn what we needed.”_

_“Keep it. In fact, I would suggest finding a way to contain it, something small that can be split amongst the men in case it is of need.” It is not a method Edmund condones under normal circumstances, but he will be damned if this man gets away from them again. Police justice, in this case, is not what Edmund desires._

_Jackson nods. “I have just the thing.”_

***.*.*.***

Tension lies heavy in Edmund’s belly as he waits for Father Benedict to arrive. Lusk’s men are an unsettling presence behind him, shifting in place as they strain to peek through windows and doorways. At last there is the approach of footsteps, and Edmund straightens in his chair.

“Good evening, Inspector. Sister Mary said you wished to speak with me urgently?”

“Indeed, Father. Word has reached our precinct that the orphanage is to close soon.”

Father Benedict takes his seat, pulling a pair of glasses from his desk drawer and settling them low on his nose. They give him the appearance of a doting grandfather, kind-hearted and genial. Edmund’s guy tells him this is the kind of man who does not believe in inherent evil, who thinks souls can be saved with words from a book. Edmund hopes for his sake, Father Benedict has more steel in his spine than that. 

“You have heard correctly, though it saddens me to admit as much. The Sisters and I have dedicated the last thirty years to this home, and it breaks our hearts to know these children will be without a home.”

Edmund takes the opening. “That is why we are here, Father. You are one of several orphanages closing, and we believe the children here will be targeted by a man who promises a new home but—”

“But instead offers torture and death.” Father Benedict’s expression turns grave, but his eyes hold no doubt. “I have heard of such a man. The boys given into his care do not live past their use, and some not even that long. One of the Sisters here came from such a home.” He waves to a young woman hovering near the door. “This is Sister Grace. She worked at one such home for boys and the tale she told of the ones who were found is one of great tragedy.”

“This man has taken one of my own,” Edmund states. “A young constable of twenty-one who could pass just as easily for sixteen. It is believed the boy was in this man’s—this Thomas Atwater’s possession once before.”

Father Benedict’s gaze goes dark with sympathy. “If that is the case, he is quite fortunate. Now, Inspector, tell me what we must do to ensure this monster does not hurt the children of this home.”

Edmund has the rest of the Sisters brought in, and from there the plan is outlined. When he is done, Father Benedict stands and clasps one of Edmund’s hands within two of his own. 

“The missing constable will be in our thoughts, Inspector, as we pray for his safe return. He is lucky to have a man such as yourself looking for him. May God be ever at your side in these times.”

“Thank you. I must take my leave now. These men shall remain behind in case Mr. Atwater attempts to take the boys by force. Good evening, Father.”

In the entry way, Edmund spares a few more words for the men, then slips out into the late evening. The carriage is ready, the driver just roused from his nap, and they exchange a grim look. Only the most trusted men have been allowed to partake in this mission, men who understand what is at risk should anyone fail and allow Atwater to add to his collection.

“We’d best be on our way, Inspector,” the driver says. “It’s two hours’ ride that awaits us.”

***.*.*.***

_The poison is passed out in waterproof satchels with words of caution concerning its potency. Edmund holds in certainty that the poison will find its way into the belly of their enemy should any of these men come upon him. He hates how much the idea of another man’s death pleases him, but these are extenuating circumstances._

_The men trickle out of the room, headed back to their desks or home, and then it is just the four of them: Bennet, Hobbs, Jackson and Edmund. Edmund leads the way to his office, closes and locks his door against the eyes and ears of the others, then sinks down into his chair. It is time, he knows, for Hobbs to be told the truth. He deserves no less than full disclosure, no matter what Abberline thinks._

_“Hobbs, I need you to listen to me very carefully.”_

_“Sir.”_

_At Jackson’s direction, Hobbs takes the seat across from Edmund, his eyes wide and earnest beneath the brim of his cap._

_“The man we are tracking—he is not only wanted for killing boys.”_

_Hobbs doesn’t do all the things Edmund expects: He does not blink his eyes nor does he look confused. There is shrewd awareness tucked into the corners of his eyes._

_“He’s been selling them, hasn’t he, sir?”_

_There is no point in lying or softening his words. “Yes, he has, and they have been defiled in all the worst ways. But that is not all, Hobbs. These boys… there are variations in their appearance, but for every ten boys brought in, six bear striking similarities to yourself. Slender, dark in hair and eyes, youthful in face. It is why I have not let you patrol alone.”_

_“Or see the victims.” Hobbs’ lips form a tight line._

_Jackson clears his throat. “No one doubts your ability, Hobbs. We’re just being…”_

_“Diligent,” Bennet finishes for him._

_Edmund sighs and pushes away from his desk. “You must understand, Hobbs, you are a risk we cannot afford.” He says it with the best intentions and is relieved when Hobbs does not appear offended._

_“But now you’ve changed your minds?” Hobbs looks between then, eyes wide and dark, his thoughts heavily guarded._

_“To some degree, yes,” Edmund replies. He hesitates, then pushes on. “Abberline has forbidden your involvement in this case, but it is unavoidable. However, I would like to restrict your shifts to the day unless you are here._

_A frown begins to work its way over Hobbs’ face, a downward tilt to his eyebrows, and a puckering at the corners of his mouth. Before he can protest, however, Jackson is speaking._

_“If you work from here, you can help me in the dead room.”_

_“And you can train more,” Bennet offers._

_It’s clear Hobbs still wants to refuse, but their boy is smart and unlike so many others his age he is not driven by his pride. After a brief pause, he nods._

_“All right, then. My shift was supposed to start in an hour, sir? Should I change into my uniform now?”_

_Edmund shakes his head at the same time Bennet speaks. “Nah. Today, I’ll try you on the knife some more. You keep your shoulders too tense and you lead with your chin.”_

_Hobbs’ gaze darts from face to face, and Edmund wonders if he’s imagining things when he sees the way it lingers on Jackson. He remains silent as Bennet and Hobbs take their leave, and then it is just Edmund and Jackson. From his desk drawer, Edmund withdraws a small bottle of brandy and two glasses, adding a splash to both. He slides one of them across the desk to Jackson, and they let the silence stretch as they sip away their worries._

_It doesn’t take long for Jackson to find his words. He clears his throat, rubs a hand over his face and refuses to make eye contact with Edmund._

_“I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.”_

_“As have I,” Edmund says. “But we are doing the best that we can with what we have. He is far safer here, with us, than he would be if we were to send him away. We will keep him out of the line of fire.”_

_The lie lingers on Edmund’s tongue, hollow and menacing, long after they part ways. It chases him home, leaves him restless as he makes his way to bed and into Emily’s arms, and becomes an ominous feeling that steals into gut._

_Edmund is slow to admit defeat, but when he does, he slips from the bed and escapes to Mathilda’s bedroom where he surrounds himself with relics of a different life. Everywhere he turns, he sees fault and unhappiness, and he cannot help but think perhaps he is the unlucky thing plaguing all those he holds closest, cherishes._

_He falls asleep there, the strings of his daughter’s favorite marionette tangled around his fingers. Edmund wakes when the toy is freed, put up with the rest of the unused toys. Emily’s face is drawn, her night shift pulled tight around her in deference to the cold that has taken up permanent residence in their home this winter. She doesn’t say a word, but she lends him her strength, bears them both back to their bed and tucks herself into the curve of his body. Her head fits beneath Edmund’s chin and her breath is warm where it slides over his skin._

_“Thank you,” he whispers into the dark. He pretends not to hear the silence that follows._

***.*.*.***

They meet at the house, not the precinct. Emily greets Edmund with a cool kiss to his cheek as she takes his coat, then heads to put the kettle on. Just as he makes to follow, the door opens behind him and Jackson is there. They exchange weighted stares, Edmund assessing the damage that has been wrought by the separation, Jackson searching for some small spark of hope. His face goes cold and blank when he does not find it, and Edmund is forced to see just how much the other man has aged in the last few weeks. Hobbs’ disappearance—his _kidnapping_ —has made a gaping wound of Jackson’s entire existence, and for the first time, Edmund wonders what will happen if the worst comes to pass. If the next body they pull from the gutter or the Thames or wherever, is Hobbs’, Edmund does not doubt he will lose two friends that day.

Bennet’s appearance shatters the tension and the news he brings shifts the mood from despair to determined, gives Jackson what Edmund could not.

“Father Dominic knows of such a man as we seek. Says he was visited just last week with the offer of a new home for the boys in his care. News of the dead children had not yet reached this Father, and so he agreed. The home closes in three weeks’ time; the boys are to be gone in two.”

“Then we have no time to lose.”

Edmund’s first thought is head for the precinct, but before he can make the order, Emily is there. She is logic in a moment fraught with emotion, and Edmund considers himself blessed that she has remained at his side through all of this.

“Tea is ready.” She waves the other to toward the kitchen, but stays Edmund with a hand on his arm. Her voice low, she says, “Edmund, if this man has visited once... is there a chance he saw your Sergeant Drake at the home?”

Life as a bobby’s wife has given Emily a keen sense and a sharp mind. That Edmund did not think of it first is almost terrifying. He is too close to the case, so blinded by his desire to have Hobbs back safe and sound that he did not stop to think. He does now.

In the kitchen, Edmund sits across from Bennet. “Was your carriage followed either to or from the orphanage?” 

“No, sir, and there was naught but a small shed within sight’s distance of the home. Lusk’s lads checked it out before we went inside. You think he might return sooner?”

“It is a possibility, yes, and one I had not thought of until my wife mentioned it.”

Jackson merely eyes her, but the look Bennet shoots Emily is one of praise and Edmund feels a swell of pride bloom in his chest. Jackson gives his report, and all attention returns to the discussion at hand.

“Going forward, we’ll have to be more careful. The lads at Saint Peter’s were all older boys, ten in all. Smart, capable. Give ‘em a year or two and they’d make decent recruits.”

“Would you take an assistant, then, Captain Jackson?” Emily asks. 

Jackson’s gaze hardens, shifts to the table where it becomes harder to read. “I’ve got one already,” he replies, his tone flat. 

Emily sighs and stands. “I think I’ll take my leave. Gentlemen, I suggest you eat if you insist on staying up all hours. There’s stew in the pot and bread still warm in the oven.” She presses another kiss to Edmund’s cheek, squeezes Bennet’s shoulder once, and pauses beside Jackson. She says nothing, but it is all there in her gaze. 

Then she’s gone and Edmund can feel the words he’s been holding back all night force their way up his throat, tumbling off his tongue with generous measures of self-accusation and regret.

“It is like Mathilda all over again,” he says in a rush. “I can feel that he is alive, that he is out there. Waiting. Waiting for us to find him.”

“We will.” Bennet sounds confident, far more so than Edmund. “We’ll find the boy and see Atwater is punished well and good.”

Jackson remains silent, his gaze directed toward the window and the streetlights outside, but unfocused. There is a new kind of stillness about him, less deliberate and more as though he no longer knows how to move or speak when not immediately working to find Hobbs. Edmund thinks of Long Susan, of the feud that followed their romance from Chicago to Whitechapel and how it affected—still affects—their lives. Whatever relationship had driven them to flee America together seems to have changed, though. At the very least, it has it claims less priority than to what brews between Jackson and Hobbs.

“If you are of a mind not to return to… Susan’s, you may stay here. The guest room is in order.”

“I’m not staying—” An odd expression passes over his face, and after a second, he says, “Thanks, but I’m okay. In fact, I think I’ll head out for the night. Gentlemen.” 

Jackson tips his hat as he stands and leaves without further comment. When the front door closes with an audible click, Bennet leans back in his chair, his gaze locked on the doorway.

“He hasn’t been to Susan’s since a week after the fire.”

“Then where has he been staying?” Edmund finds it hard to believe Jackson would give up the comforts afforded by living at the brothel. Bennet’s answer makes more sense than it should.

“He’s been staying at the boy’s place.” At Edmund’s enquiring look, Bennet explains, “I followed him from a bar, to make sure he didn’t cause any trouble. Didn’t realize where he was headed until we were there.” He pauses, no doubt for dramatic effect, then adds, “He has his own key.”

Edmund wonders if he should be more concerned by what that means. It’s obvious now that Jackson and Hobbs had grown close after Goodnight’s failed murder attempt, but the intimacy suggested by this new evidence has Edmund curious as to just how close. For all he knows, it is a strictly platonic relationship, the kind of friendship that would save the world a lot of hurt if only more people opened themselves up to it. In the next breath, Edmund knows that no matter what the technicalities, he does not begrudge them their intimacy. It is clearly a relationship that has benefitted them both, and that is enough for him.

“It is not our place to judge him.”

Bennet takes no offence at the caution. “Wasn’t judgin’ him, just stating a fact.” He turns to meet Edmund’s gaze, and there is sorrow, sharp and bitter, in his eyes. “If the boy is dead, he won’t come back from that.”

“No, he won’t,” Edmund agrees. It is nothing more than the truth. Either Jackson will leave Whitechapel, leave England all together, or he will follow Hobbs into death. Neither outcome pleases Edmund in the least.

“The guest room is open if you have a mind a stay.” At Bennet’s refusal, Edmund offers him a smile, sad though he expects it is. “On that note, I am to bed. Tomorrow we will meet at the precinct. I would have as many men as H Division can spare join us at the boys home under whatever cover possible.” An idea is already forming in his mind, but he needs to speak with Emily before he says more.

Bennet takes his leave, hesitating on the front step as though on the verge of changing his mind. Then he’s gone, slipping into the shadows that line the street, the sound of his footsteps fading. Edmund waits until he is certain there is no chance Bennet will return, then he closes the door, does up the locks and heads toward his bedroom.

***.*.*.***

_It takes three more dead bodies over the course of as many weeks—one of them a boy no older than six—before Abberline tracks the three of them down at a tavern. His expression is that of a man condemned even before he speaks his mind, but knows no other recourse. Edmund expects many things to come from his mouth: a demand to hand over the case or criticism for their inclusion of Hobbs in all matters now._

_“There are rumors that children gone missing are coming up dead, that it is Jack the Ripper all over again, but with a new target.”_

_Edmund stills, frozen by the threat in such news. “I have heard nothing.”_

_Abberline shakes his head. “We need to find this man, Edmund, and we need to find him now.”_

_“What more would have me do, Fred? Already my men work double shifts, one on the streets for the world to see, and the other in the shadows, hunting down every bit of information they can. There is nothing more we can do, unless you hold some knowledge I do not.”_

_“Use the boy.”_

_It takes a full minute for the meaning of Abberline’s words to sink in, but when they do, it is not only Edmund’s voice protesting loudly at the idea. Bennet looks furious, but Jackson is more physical, more violent in his response. He grabs Abberline by the front of his coat and all but hauls him over the table._

_“I’d sooner slit my own goddamn throat than expose him to such a person.”_

_Abberline jerks free of Jackson’s grip, brushes his hands down his coat and glares. “Do you think I make the suggestion lightly? There is no other way. We do not even have a name yet for none have managed to glimpse his face.”_

_Edmund argues against the order, but Abberline is firm. When he leaves, it is with the face of man who has just watched a lifetime pass before his eyes. Fury is bright in the eye of Jackson and Bennet alike, a sure reflection of what Edmund feels, but he understands. He does not agree, but like Abberline, he can see no other choice. Too many children have died already at the hands of their suspect and his thugs._

_“Who will be the one to tell the boy?” Bennet asks at last._

_“I will.”_

_Edmund looks at Jackson, startled. “It is official police business. It would be best—”_

_Jackson’s palms hit the table, a sharp crack that draws the attention of those patrons closest. Jackson pays them no mind as he shoves himself to his feet. “I’ll tell him tonight. Just the basics. The rest you can cram down his goddamn over-eager throat tomorrow.”_

_He’s gone before Edmund can think of a reply, Bennet staring after him with his face twisted in an inscrutable expression._

_“He’s gone a bit touchy over the boy,” Bennet comments. There’s no judgment in his tone, no censure. Just a bland sort of curiosity._

_“I believe Hobbs spends as much time in the dead room with Jackson as he does on patrol. It’s a miracle he finds time for other pursuits.”_

_“Does he, though?”_

_The question gives Edmund pause. He thinks Hobbs must have_ some _other hobbies, something to pass the time when he is not working, but it occurs to him that he has never heard Hobbs speak of such. Has never heard him speak of a lady friend, either, which seems an impossibility given Hobbs age. Something of his concern and shock must show on his face, for in the next moment, Bennet adds,_

_“As far as I’ve seen, the boy’s never been without a smile. However he passes his time, he’s got no complaints.”_

_“No, you are right.” Edmund takes a deep breath, lets it out slow and easy, then says, “It is late and Emily is expecting me. I will see you in the morning, Bennet.”_

_“Good evening, sir.”_

_Bennet tips his hat, drains the last of his drink and slips into the crowd to disappear from sight. Edmund delays a bit longer, his thoughts consumed with thoughts of the next day. He doesn’t doubt that Hobbs will rise to the occasion, that his smile will grow wide and eager at the opportunity to once again prove himself. Edmund wants to hope Hobbs will say no, that he will see the danger in what is being asked of him, but he knows that is not what will happen. With a sigh, Edmund takes his leave from the tavern, and as he walks the darkened city streets to home, he prays they are not making a mistake._

***.*.*.***

When dawn greets Edmund, Emily at his side, it is with overcast skies, clouds overburdened with unshed rain. It feels like a dark omen, but he keeps the thought to himself, unwilling to voice such negativity when they are so close to reclaiming their boy. He allows no room in his mind for anything save hope, scarce as it has been these last few weeks. If Hobbs were dead, they would have found his body by now, and if he is alive… whatever misfortunes have befallen him, Hobbs is a strong boy and they will all of them do everything in their power to see him recovered.

The entire mission relies on the assistance of Susan, Rose and his Emily. They take the carriage to their first stop, and at the door to Susan’s latest abode, Edmund parts ways with his wife. She will not go inside, cannot, if she is to stay above the whisperings that will follow in the footsteps of her visit to this place of depravity, but she is far stronger than Edmund. He leaves as the door opens, sees Susan’s expression shift from suspicion to hope, and realizes just how far Hobbs’ touch has reached. His next stop is to Abberline’s, and he hands the man a note with all explained, leaving as quickly as he arrived. There is much to do and time is of the essence.

Edmund reaches the precinct at the same time as Bennet and Rose. Jackson is already there, stretched out on the steps with his hat over his face. His clothes are new, so he returned home at some point, but he has been outside long enough for the sheen of early-morning mist to settle over him, a damp blanket that can offer no warmth.

“Up, wretch,” Bennet says with a kick to Jackson’s shoe. 

The words would be unkind, Edmund thinks, were it not for the gentleness of the action and the pity-wrapped affection in the tone. Jackson stumbles up, eyes bleary, face worn. The lines across his forehead and bracketing his mouth are deep, the shadows in his eyes saddening. What a fine set they are, Edmund and his two closest companions. Brittle in some places, broken in others, and each needing the balm of their missing center to set them all to rights.

Rose parts ways with them just inside, making her way to the bench to wait for Emily and Susan. Inside the great room, the men have all gathered, ill-concealed eagerness and rage brightening their eyes despite the early hour. The hunt is in their blood, though Edmund has no clue how they came to the knowledge of what he is to say. Even Best is there, his smile vicious thing to behold. Edmund nods to them all, then takes his place at the front of the room, Bennet to his right and Jackson to his left.

“We have our target.”

The cheer that goes up is deafening. After that, it is all Edmund can do to call order, to give to each man his duties that will see them through the next few nights. Abberline arrives late, and from Edmund, his inferior, he takes his instructions to remain at H Division while Edmund and ten men travel to the orphanage. No one speaks of the satchels clutched tight in vengeful hands.

“As we speak, my wife accompanies Susan Hart to collect clothing for boys from her church. When they arrive here, they, along with Ms. Erskine, will be divided into three carriages and attended by seven men per carriage, along with the three of us; four to ride in the open, three hidden away inside. Father Dominic has no knowledge of what we are planning. It was deemed safest this way and there was no time to send warning.”

“Will that leave enough men here, sir?” Atherton’s concern is genuine, his eyes darting about at all the faces.

“Men from the surrounding areas have agreed to put in shifts here to cover however long it takes to bring this animal to ground,” Abberline replies. “They gather as we speak and will arrive within an hour’s time.”

Edmund pushes on. “Here is what we can safely assume: Atwater does not work alone. In a previous case, he was a background man, an apprentice, if you will. Now he has taken up the reins of his sick enterprise. The scheme is large, more so than it was some years ago. He grabs boys from all over London and even in cities outside. Consider each man you come across in his company to be armed and a threat. I will not see this man’s poison spread; this ends today, permanently.” Edmund meets Abberline’s understanding gaze, and when he finds no censure there, adds, “I need not explain what ‘permanently’ means in this instance.”

The men charged with the protection of Whitechapel will see that no man called enemy escapes. It is the greatest of unspoken promises, and Edmund knows he will never be able to pay them back for their loyalty. What they are doing goes against all they have sworn, but there is not a soul in the room who would not be a part of this expedition.

“Good. Until such a time as the women arrive, you will greet our replacements for the next two days and show them how things are run here. The less they know of what we are doing, the better, but let us keep the lies to a minimum. We are needed to oversee the protection of young boys in danger. It is the truth, and it is solid. That is your story. Best?”

Best straightens from where he has been reclining against the wall. “None of this will make it to the paper, Inspector. When you have a moment, though, I should like to discuss with you the story that _will_ be told.”

They have come a long way indeed when it is a day in which Best publishes a story in favor of H Division.

“This way,” Edmund says. 

He leads Best into his office, Bennet and Jackson silent shadows unwilling to be parted from his side. He feels the same. They are a comfort he has not acknowledged, though plenty have remarked upon it in the last few weeks. By Susan’s opinion, they are three points, and with Hobbs as their center, they form a triangle, odd in shape, but equal in how each cares for their boy. Rose thinks them an unfinished poem, each man a segment that requires the presence of the others to show his meaning. Emily thinks them a puzzle, jagged in shape, but fitting together in a way no other four men do. One day, when he is not so raw and aching over his missing piece, when everyone is whole again, he will ask her what precisely it is she means.

When the door is closed and Best is seated, Edmund clears his throat. “It is my belief that there will be a disagreement. The men we seek do not wish to be caught and they will fight for their freedom.”

Best nods. “It is a tragedy when a one of Whitechapel’s finest is forced to take a life, especially when they would see these men they chase after brought to justice, their secrets bared for all of London. I know how much it pleases you to see these men brought before their peers for judgment, so it would a shame if, instead, they forced your hand in the taking of their lives.”

“We are of an accord, then.”

Best smiles, teeth bared. “To a degree. I am to assume you would not like Constable Dick Hobbs’ misfortunes printed.”

“You are correct,” Jackson growls. 

With a start, Best twists around in his seat, meets the murderous gaze directed toward him, and raises a hand to his ear. The discoloration is not so evident from afar, but up close, Edmund can see the faint scar from when it was removed from Best’s head. Though it was not Jackson’s hand that cut it free does not seem to matter to Best. A Pinkerton is a Pinkerton, and in Best’s eyes, they are savage beasts who cannot be trusted.

“Perhaps another boy, then?” Best inquires. He faces Edmund once more, but leans forward in his chair, putting some added distance between him and the threat at his back.”

“If it is necessary, then do so. I would not have the boy’s reputation sullied more than it has been. That he was taken is bad enough.”

Best nods, stands as though to make his exit, only to pause at the door. “When you find this man,” he says without turning, “see that he suffers a great deal before he meets his end. I have seen the horrors he forced upon these children, and I should sleep better at night knowing that every victim has received his pound of flesh.”

It’s Jackson who replies, his tone cold and full of hateful promise. “I’ll see that he does.”

Edmund shivers as he watches Best go. He sags back into his chair, his fingers drumming out his nerves against the arm of his chair. No one speaks. 

The wait has begun.

***.*.*.***

_Abberlin is the one to tell Hobbs the details of the plan, not Edmund, and for that, Edmund holds inside himself an unbanked fury. His hand trembles with it, though he works hard to hide such from the others. Beside him, Jackson reclines in chair, seeming for the world not to have a care. It requires more diligent appraisal to see the anger in his eyes, the desire to hurt in the line of his shoulders. His gaze is fastened on Abberline, and Edmund knows all that is holding Jackson back is the look of eager pride on Hobbs’ face._

_“Someone will always be with you, boy. Do you understand? You are not to go off alone, no matter what the circumstance. When he approaches, drop your left hand to your side.”_

_“How will I know him?”_

_Edmund cuts in, needing to be a part of the conversation. “You will know him by the look in his eye. He will be appraising you, and when he speaks, his tone will be one of innocence. Most like, he will ask if you have a family and if not, are you looking for work and a warm place to sleep. If he offers to take you someplace by carriage, decline. Tell him you are easily sick when you ride and see if there is a place you can meet. We can only follow if you are on foot. Do you understand?”_

_Hobbs’ gaze slides over to lock with Edmund’s and a hundred thoughts and emotions darken his eyes. It is on the tip of Hobbs’ tongue, Edmund thinks, to say something comforting, to perhaps reach out and touch, but he is careful not to do so in front of Abberline._

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Good.” Abberline draws their attention back to himself. “You’ll be in civvies, obviously, but something borrowed, not your own. The clothes must be ill-fitting and worn. That is what will catch his eye. Dress too cleanly, and he will see the lie for what it is and leave.”_

_The conversation drones from there, and when it is over, Edmund remains behind with Bennet while Abberline takes his leave. Jackson whisks Hobbs off in search of a costume, their heads bent close together, their gait easy. Susan knows many people now, and with her help, the Hobbs that will return later will be one appearing at least five years younger and a prime target for their subject. Edmund is sick at the idea, but all other attempts at stopping the man have been unsuccessful._

_Most of all, they need a name, a face to put with this devil._

_Bennet says nothing in the silence that is stretched thin between them, but his unhappiness fills the room, adds to the grim setting of dead boys, their wounds hidden from sight beneath their second-hand clothes. Out of nowhere, Edmund is hit with the memory of the day nearly lost Hobbs. Of the heartbreak that had cloaked Bennet’s voice when he arrived at the house to find Hobbs laid out on the guest bed, pulse thready and skin blue from the chill of the river as the doctor moved around him. Bennet had looked to Edmund with the expression so bare and vulnerable and asked,_ ‘How, Mr. Edmund?’ _, as though there could possibly be answer that would make sense._

_“I will see every man even suspected of connection to this case behind bars or dead should anything happen to the boy.”_

_“I hope it should not come to that, sir,” Bennet replies at long last. “I should only hope.”_

_They remain there, trapped in their thoughts, until Atherton arrives. Awareness has his gaze sharp, and he growls when he speaks._

_“Chief Inspector Abberline has told us what is to be done. There’s none that like it, sir. This man, he is not to be underestimated.”_

_“No, he is not, but nor is Hobbs. He has been trained hard by Bennet since his recovery and he is very capable of seeing himself protected. Do not let him get a sense of your unease, for that will only undermine his confidence.”_

_“Yes, sir.” It is clear Bennet wishes to say more, and a moment later, he uncurls his tongue from where it’s been hiding. “If this man should get at Hobbs, sir, there is not a man in this precinct that won’t have his blood in their sights.”_

_Edmund stares at him, assessing. “I am counting on it, Sergeant.”_

_They make their parting then with the agreement to meet up outside of Susan’s. Edmund passes the information on to Abberline when he finds him, but says nothing more. Threats will mean nothing until that moment in which they are necessary has come. Edmund declines tea, and instead, turns his feet toward home, where Emily greets him with a tight, unhappy smile._

_“What is wrong?”_

_For a second, it occurs to Edmund to lie to her. In the absence of their daughter, Emily clutches at her work for the shelter, the church and the attention she heaps upon the ever-embarrassed Hobbs. He has filled a void in their lives, if not the hole in their hearts, and Emily will not take the news of his playing bait easily. In the next heartbeat, Edmund knows he cannot. He owes his wife the truth, and he gives it to her, regret in every syllable._

_“The Chief Inspector has decided we must use Dick Hobbs to flush out our quarry.”_

_Emily laughs, her smile bitter and made of sharp edges. “The Chief Inspector, then, not Fred Abberline, friend and inspiration.”_

_Edmund shakes his head. “It does not feel right, this case, and to involve Hobbs…”_

_She sighs, lays a comforting hand on his arm and says, “He has been trained and is protected by the three best men in all of London. If he is taken, he will find relief in the fact that you will find him, all of you.”_

_“Your confidence is a comfort,” Edmund replies. He lets out a short breath and shakes some of the tension from his shoulders. “I am home for tea and to change. We plant Hobbs in view starting tonight, and every night henceforward until an interest is taken in him.”_

_“Then tea it is.”_

_In the kitchen, Emily surrounds herself in the familiar routine of putting on the kettle. They have a woman who cooks for them, who keeps the house tidy, but she comes only in the mornings and late evenings as Emily prefers her privacy. Edmund makes to sit, then changes his mind. In the bedroom, he strips away his work suit and exchanges it for plain brown trousers and a thin button-down shirt. He rolls the sleeves to his elbows, then joins Emily in the kitchen, taking her place at the sink. His hands find the plates and flatware, slippery with soap suds, and he falls into the practiced habit of soap, rinse, set aside. Emily pauses in her own task of drying, a soft, sad smile stealing across her handsome face._

_“Will Mr. Drake and Captain Jackson be in attendance?”_

_“They would have it no other way,” he confirms._

_She nods. “Good.”_

_No more is said on the subject until Edmund is preparing to leave. Emily follows him to the door, presses a kiss to his cheek and squeezes his arm._

_“Do the best that you can, Edmund, but do not bear the weight of anymore guilt. I do not think we could survive it.”_

_“I may not have much choice,” Edmund says. He leaves before she can reply._

***.*.*.***

The windows of the carriage are covered, leaving no way for Edmund to mark their travel. Beside him, Emily sits with her hands twisted in her lap, her face wan. Edmund cannot help but clasp her hands within one of his own, and she offers him a smile that is equal parts worry and support. When Edmund married her, he had known only that she was a good woman and he loved her. It was later that he learned of her strength, and never has he been as glad for it as he is now.

“We will find our Dick Hobbs and we will have him back,” she says. “You will see that this man—this _monster_ never touches another child and we will find happiness in life once more.” She does not ask him to promise her, but in his heart and mind, he does. “Now, tell me once more your plan.”

Talking helps to pass the time. Though everyone in the carriage knows the plot better than their own name, no one complains when he begins again.

“With twelve men helping to bring in food and clothing to see the boys to their new home, it will be hard to track their movements. All of us are dressed in near identical clothing to avoid detection by any audience we may have. Those who travel inside the carriage will remain at the home when everyone else leaves, hidden where we can fit. Father Dominic does not yet know our intent, but he will be agreeable.

“The youngest boys will be smuggled out of the house in empty cases, so it is to our benefit that we make it seem we are under no added weight when we move them. The older boys will be given clothes to match our own, and by the time we are done with this charade, only my men and those belonging to Lusk will remain behind. And Mr. Atwater will find himself unpleasantly surprised.”

There is more to the plan than that, small details that are whispered amongst the passengers, and Edmund listens but does not interject. All of his focus is on the weave of Emily’s fingers through his own, the itch of cheap fabric against his skin. His thoughts fly to Bennet and Rose, to Jackson and Susan, and he wonders what conversations are taking place in the other two carriages. Susan, he thinks, is a woman on par with Emily. In another life, perhaps, they could have been friends, even. The strength she has lent to Jackson since Hobbs’ kidnapping is invaluable, and that there is no jealousy to be seen speaks volumes of their relationship. He hopes it will survive whatever outcome awaits them this day.

Edmund is jolted from his thoughts by the carriage coming to a stop, and he ducks out of view as Emily peels back the curtain to peer outside. “We’re here,” she announces.

The men tuck themselves into the shadows as the door opens and Lusk appears. He offers his hand to Emily, then closes the door enough to keep prying eyes from peeking inside. There is a commotion as the rest of the men clamor off the top of the carriage, as trunks are handed down with care and Father Dominic is fetched. Everything seems to go as planned, and that in itself is almost daunting. By the time Edmund is inside with eleven other men, he wonders if perhaps it was not all too easy.

“What do we do now?” Father Dominic asks from his place at the windows. 

He’s been calm about the whole thing, though Edmund assumes it’s more for the Sisters’ sakes than anything else. The four women charged with caring for the boys are huddled in the kitchen over tea, steadfast in their determination not to leave. Four boys were forced to stay, too sick to be moved without drawing attention to what is happening. They have their orders: the moment Atwater and his men are seen approaching, they are to take the boys into the basement and stay there until the all-clear is called.

“Now we wait and we pray that we have not been discovered.”

Jackson deals with this least well of everyone. He paces in the hallway between the kitchen and the front room, well away from the windows. They must all take care now not to give themselves away. Edmund tucks a hand into his pocket, his fingers finding the pendant engraved with Saint Michael. There is another, a token from Emily to given to Hobbs when he is found, of the Patron Saint Jerome. Edmund clutches both in his fist and relishes in the bite of metal against soft flesh.

“Easy now,” Bennet says when Jackson shoves another man away. “Have some tea, rest your feet.”

“How can you be so goddamn calm right now?”

One corner of Bennet’s mouth curls up, not a smile, but something sadder. “Not much of a choice, time like this.” He taps his arm, where a tattoo sits, and says, “She helps a good deal. Gives me some bit of control when I need it most.”

One of the nuns appears to press a steaming mug into Jackson’s hands and he smiles at her, all teeth and charm. “Thanks, darling.”

The look she gives him is that of an indulgent mother, and the twist of his lips is more genuine, all sense of mocking gone. When she leaves, he sags back against the wall. Everything about him screams broken, and Edmund knows that he is teetering on the edge. His sanity relies solely on their ability to bring Hobbs back.

“The sun sets,” one of the men says from the front room. 

The announcement is met with a flurry of activity. The nuns gather the children and bustle them down into the basement where cots have been set up with blankets piled high. Food and water awaits them as well, the length of time they will be kept down there uncertain. 

No one speaks.

The tension builds as the silence expands and Jackson looks to be at the point of snapping when the knock comes. Father Dominic spares no attention for Edmund and his men and pulls the door open.

“You are early,” he says. “I was not expecting you for another fortnight.”

“I thought it best to come sooner. I know how troublesome it can be to prepare for inspection and wished to ease your burden.”

Father Dominic leads Atwater to the kitchen and from his place in the cupboard, Edmund watches as tea is served. Already, Atwater’s hackles are raised, and he notes the extra cups in the sink with interest.

“You had visitors today.”

This is not part of the script, but Father Dominic takes the change in stride and nods. “I did. Some women from a nearby town brought clothes and such for the boys. As you saw last week, their clothing was too small. One of the Sisters appealed to the head of the charity and a generous donation was made. They stayed a bit for tea while their men unloaded the supplies, but some of the children are ill.” At the look of unease on Atwater’s face, Father Dominic hurries to placate him. “It is nothing serious; a cold brought on by the late chill. They will be fit to travel by the scheduled time.”

Atwater appears to consider this. “Are all the boys sick?”

“No, not all, but most. The youngest two and one of the older lads have yet to show signs of ill-temper, but all are in bed already in the hopes that rest will help to keep them in health. Tell me, sir, where is it you would take the boys?”

“I would take them to a home run by myself and my sister,” Atwater replies. The lie slips from his tongue without hesitation and he shifts in his seat, his back to Edmund. “We discussed this already.”

Father Dominic nods and offers a tired smile. “Yes, yes, of course. Only—some of the Sisters expressed concern. They would not like to see the children separated, particularly those who are siblings.”

“If that is your worry, think not of it. There is plenty of space, and schooling as well. My sister is well-learned and she will see that no boy lacks.”

“But no girls.”

“What?”

Father Dominic places the cream on the table, then sits. “No girls, I said. Only boys. It just seems rather specific, is what I mean.”

It is the wrong thing to say, for in the next second, Atwater is on his feet, one of his hands bunched in the front of Father Dominic’s shirt. There is a flash, a glint of metal, but by the time Edmund has shoved open the door, it is already too late.

The fight that follows is not in their favor. There are more men than expected, and all of whom are armed. Atwater screams something as he shoves his way out of the house, and even when a shot rings out and he stumbles forward, his feet do not stop until he is in his carriage.

“Now is your chance to prove your worth, Jackson!” Edmund shouts. He runs for the second carriage, slides his borrowed blade through the neck of a man who thinks to keep him from it, and wastes not a second climbing into the driver’s seat. Bennet is right beside them, but Jackson makes for one of the untied horses. He does not fumble as he swings himself up into the saddle, and he kicks the horse into a gallop, not far behind Atwater.

They pass two of the three carriages that had borne them here in their chase, the women taken safely back to Whitechapel. Edmund wastes valuable seconds pausing in his pursuit to take on three more men, but the rest head for the house. Next to him, Bennet takes up the rifle left behind by their enemy.

“There was no sign of the boy,” he says.

Edmund shakes his head. “Then he will lead us there now. Lay your trust in Jackson, for of all of us, he is the most driven to hunt this man down.”

“I’ll spare no pity for the bastard when his screams are echoing through the night.” There is grim satisfaction in Bennet’s voice, and Edmund shivers.

“Whatever men he brought with him tonight, there will be more where he is headed. I need not warn that we will likely be outnumbered, so do not hesitate to shoot. Take care for the children. If the opportunity presents itself, see that they are removed from danger.”

Behind him, the three men chorus their acknowledgment of the order.

Their destination is a good ways from the city, a large farmhouse with not one but two barns. Rage boils in Edmund’s belly for he knows now what he will find in those barns. They will have been prepared for the boys coming in, and no doubt hold those stolen from the streets of London, unmissed because they were unwanted. Less than ten, he guesses, but still too many.

There is no sign of Atwater or Jackson, though the carriage is abandoned and the horse free. Edmund takes the gun Bennet presses into his hand, unhappy to have hold of such a weapon, but aware of the necessity. He would not be caught unarmed now, when they are so close. They are approaching the barn when a shout goes up at the farmhouse, and Edmund leads the way, the pounding of feet behind him the only comfort to be found now.

Inside is a macabre dinner setting. At the table sit thirteen men, all with their faces half in their food. At the stench of human waste, Edmund covers his nose, and beside him, Bennet does the same. 

“All of them dead, then?”

“Indeed, though how—” Edmund breaks off, his eyes going to the fine powder spilled from a small satchel on the floor. It is similar to that which Hobbs carried on him, and he picks it up by the cord, careful not to touch the poison, though it has no effect through the skin. “You clever boy,” he murmurs.

There is another shout, and this time it is one of pain, and familiar at that. Edmund brings his finger to his lips and they slip through the house on silent feet. The other men circle around, and by the time they track the sound to the parlor, the occupants are surrounded.

At first, Edmund sees only Jackson squared off against Atwater, one hand clutched at his shoulder where a small knife protrudes. Atwater is wounded as well, one arm dangling useless at his side. Then Edmund’s attention shifts beyond them, and it is only Bennet’s hand on his shoulder that keeps him from getting in the way. Tucked in the corner and almost invisible is Hobbs, his wrists and ankles heavily shackled. Even from where they stand, Edmund can see that Hobbs is bruised, bloodied and unconscious, but he is also _alive_ , and that is most important.

Frank Goodnight is not the only Pinkerton with the talent for removing ears. Jackson shows the same gift, in spades, but stops there as two of their men enter the room. One of Lusk’s men and a constable secure Atwater between themselves, leaving Jackson free to remove the keys tucked in the man’s pocket. He drops into a crouch beside Hobbs, his hands gentle as he slots the key into the shackles. The skin beneath is broken and blistered, marks that will fade in time, but can never be erased. 

“Carry him into the other room. We have only minutes before the others will arrive, and I would not have his abuse exposed to so many eyes.”

Jackson swallows, but does as bid, his touch gentle as he lifts Hobbs into his arms. Their boy has lost a great deal of weight, and he looks impossibly fragile as he is laid out. When Jackson reaches for his buttons on his clothes, his hands are shaking. Bennet turns away, eyes damp and jaw set, and does not turn back around until he hears the sigh of relief that escapes Jackson.

“What?”

“If he has been touched, it wasn’t recently. No visible tearing, minimal bruising.” He hesitates, looks up at them with disbelieving eyes. “There’s no reason for it, though, not by all accounts. Atwater’s a predator and Hobbs…” Hobbs was a second helping of dessert, a favorite toy recaptured.

“See what Atwater has to say for himself, Bennet.”

“Aye, sir.”

Jackson continues with his examination, the quiet of the room disturbed only by the infrequent cries from down the hall. Ten minutes have passed when Bennet rejoins them, blood staining the cuffs of his shirt as he wipes his hands clean on a rag.

“I hope you left some for me,” Jackson says as he climbs to his feet.

“There’s enough of that bastard to go around.” He kneels down and drags a gentle hand over Hobbs’ pale brow to tuck back the strands of hair, then looks to Edmund. “He’s impotent, sir. Had no taste to share the boy, so he kept him in chains in the hopes he might soon get himself in working order. Beat ‘im when he had a mind to do so, but never touched the lad otherwise.”

“He is—he’s _incapable_ of—” Edmund laughs, a short sharp sound that causes Hobbs to flinch where he lies. “He is waking. Jackson, it would perhaps be best to redress him. Then I should think there is another in need of your _attention_.

The smile Jackson gives him promises endless pain for the man in question. Edmund cannot believe it will be enough.

***.*.*.***

_It is their seventh night like this._

_Hobbs stands in the shadows of the alley, Jackson at the corner opposite, Abberline down the alley and out of sight and Edmund with Bennet not much further down. Abberline pulled all the other men that were to help after the fourth night, discouraged by the lack of sightings and unwilling to see the overtime paid, so now it only they. Edmund could sense the wrongness of the situation the moment they settled into their positions and it grows now with every passing minute._

_Across the way, Jackson lights a cigarette and blows out a long curl of smoke. Tonight his role is as busker, sat on a stool with his back to the wall, his hat upside down beside him with a few coins inside. Between his fingers he holds a harmonica, dulled from years of generous use. When he finishes with the cigarette, he folds his hand around it and plays a jaunty melody that startles a few people into laughter._

_“I’d no idea he could play so well,” Bennet says, sounding awed in spite of himself._

_“Nor I, but then, Jackson is a man of many secrets.”_

_Bennet nods. “Aye, sir, that he is.”_

_They stop talking as a man passes by Hobbs, head ducked down, but shoulders turned toward the alleyway. His pace does not slow and he pays no mind to the boy, but Edmund’s gut clenches and every instinct tells him this is the man they seek. He notes the clothes, cheaply made and the hat out of form._

_Beside him, Bennet shifts so his back is the street and pretends to peer through the window of the closed bakery. “That man, Mr. Edmund. He passed by earlier, just minutes before you arrived.”_

_“You are certain?”_

_Bennet glances down the street in the direction the man went and his lips thin out. “That’s him.”_

_Edmund opens his pocket watch, the time noted as well, then returns to his casual lean against the wall. When he spies the man again, he checks his once more. If he is correct, then the man has passed by three times in the last forty-five minutes. A third sighting confirms it. Edmund is just getting ready to signal Jackson when the man changes the course of his steps, crossing the street to hail a carriage. He is gone before Edmund can catch a glimpse at his face, and something sour settles over his tongue._

_Abberline appears not long after, a scowl lining his face. “We have been here for an hour now and there has been nothing. Tomorrow we shall meet at a new place. I will send word in the morning.”_

_They leave separately, just in case, with Bennet headed for home and his Rose and Abberline to whatever unhelpful files he researches. Edmund tips his hat to Jackson, but makes no move to leave until he is certain both his surgeon and his constable—his, and not this monster’s—are together and headed off to whatever mayhem Jackson can find for them. He knows he should not feel so possessive, knows they are each their own man, but he finds it hard to keep from thinking such._

_At home, he bypasses the darkened kitchen and makes for the bathroom. It is still new, a luxury he would never have indulged in if not for the pretty pleas of his Emily and Mathilda two years ago. He has avoided making use of the large tub tucked in the corner, but tonight Emily is at the shelter and all of Edmund’s body aches. He watches the steam rise as he strips away clothing saturated in the smoke of others, then sinks down into water so hot his skin turns red almost immediately. His shoulder burns, and he presses a hand to it._

_Edmund is unaware of falling asleep, but the next thing he knows, Emily is kneeling beside the bathtub, her brows drawn down in a frown—a too familiar expression for her. Her hand is on arm, shaking it, and he stutters out a reply, the cold water registering as he fully awakens._

_“I said your name four times. I thought perhaps you were drowned.”_

_He winces at her words and shakes his head as he sits forward. His mind works overtime, recalls the taste of salt-laden water, the scent of flesh burning and the sight of his daughter, reaching for him even as she slips over the side of the boat, his name a scream that echoes through his head even now, so many years later. “No, just sleeping,” he replies too late. He can see the anger in her eyes, faded but visible all the same. She will never forgive him for killing their daughter; he does not blame her._

_As quickly as the unpleasant mood settles, it shifts, pushed aside as Edmund stands and exposes the destroyed parts of his body. Her gaze slips down the ravaged skin, then skitters away. Once, there was another woman who did not shy away from his scars, but Edmund had had to let her go. Ms. Goren was worth more than a hushed affair, and Emily more than husband she could not bear to look at naked._

_“Edmund!”_

_It is the sound of her voice, loud and demanding, that pulls him from his thoughts, and he takes the towel held out to him, wraps it around his waist. “My apologies,” he says, staring down at the water pooling around his feet. He has no recollection of climbing out of the bath, but he’s done so, clear as day, and behind him, Emily pulls out the plug._

_“Get dressed and come to bed. Your shift is late tomorrow, yes?”_

_He nods. “It is.”_

_“Good. You haven’t been eating. You’ve lost weight.” She turns away, her last few words muffled as she precedes him out the door. “The ladies at the shelter have been whispering about you, about how I do not feed my husband as I should.” Her tone holds all the sting she no doubt suffered at the gossip._

_By the time Edmund climbs into bed, Emily is already half asleep. She rolls into the shelter of his arms, one hand fisting in the front of his pajama shirt. She makes a soft, sad sound, and he soothes her brow until the crease there eases._

_He doesn’t think he could possibly fall asleep, but his next conscious thought is that the bird outside the window is a menace. Edmund blinks into full wakefulness to discover it is already late morning, almost lunch. When he rolls over, it is to find Emily’s half of the bed empty and cold; a sight he has grown accustomed to in recent years._

_With a sigh, he sits up, digs his toes into the thick rug beside his bed. His left arm is stiff and sore from being slept on, and he winces as he tries to rotate it. A soft sound at the doorway is his only warning that Emily is approaching, followed by a dip in the bed. He starts at the press of her fingers into his shoulder._

_“You called out for Mathilda last night,” she murmurs._

_Edmund has no response to that. He feels guilty, and he’s surprised her touch can be so gentle when she must be angry with him. It is only when his scars are hidden away and the conversation far from their daughter that Emily looks at him with respect and even, in the quietest of times, affection._

_She sighs and leans into him, her cheek cool against the sleep-warm skin of his neck, her arms tight where they wrap about him. “I cannot lie and say I do not lay some blame upon your shoulders, but—I love you, Edmund. That has never changed.”_

_Edmund grips her wrists, holds her in place and accepts this small show of—perhaps not_ forgiveness _, exactly, but something close. It is a start, and one he is grateful for. When she withdraws at last, it is to press a mug into his hands, the coffee still steaming. There are so many things he wants to say to her right then, but he bits back the words, scalds his tongue on the first sip and accepts the kiss she drops on his temple._

_After he dresses, they spend the morning in the parlor watching the passersby. The newspaper holds little interest for Edmund, and Emily is in rare form, such that he is loath to ignore her closeness. Only when it past noon and his stomach makes pleadings for food do they move, Emily heading for the kitchen, Edmund at her heels. She breaks the comfortable silence as he puts together two sandwiches._

_“I’ll be at the shelter late tonight. We have three new girls, and I’d like to see them settled in comfortably.”_

_Edmund sets aside his work to pull her into a hug and closes his eyes as he presses a kiss to each eye. “They are lucky to have you looking after them.” He hands her one of the plates, then sits across from her. “It will be a late night for me as well.”_

_The rest of the meal passes with little conversation, and when they part company late in the afternoon, there is a new lightness, a sort of weightlessness, in Edmund’s step that he hasn’t felt in well over two years. It carries him through the streets and up the steps to Susan’s where a brief knock brings him face-to-face with one of the new girls._

_“Inspector,” she greets._

_“I’m meeting Jackson.” He glances at his pocket watch to see if he’s early, then back up at the girl._

_She frowns and looks back over her shoulder. When she meets his gaze once more, there is regret in her eyes. “The cap’ain fell ill late last night. Nothing serious, I don’ think, but e’s still a bit peaked. D’ya want me t’pass on a message?”_

_Her speech is unrefined with a handful of dropped consonants, but Edmund is able to discern her meaning after a few seconds. He shakes his head. “No, just let him rest.”_

_He doffs his hat before turning to leave, earning himself a faint blush in return. His pleasant mood unruffled, Edmund makes his way to the precinct where Bennet and Abberline await him. Little is said as they join Hobbs out on the street, and by silent agreement, they divide, Bennet trailing at safe distance from Hobbs to ensure he remains unmolested on their walk. The lad has caught the eye of many passing by, and it has become something of a running joke between the men as to meanings behind the looks he garners._

_The older women appears keen to take him under their wing, no doubt intent on fattening him up with rich cooking so they can marry him off to their daughters or nieces. A few younger women pause to admire and flirt behind their gloved hands and under the brims of their hats. Edmund thinks that Mathilda, were she alive now, would do the same, and the idea of Hobbs as a son-in-law calms some of the unease that has settled low against Edmund’s spine._

_The men who turn to look at Hobbs tend to have expressions that lean toward nostalgia, remembering their own misbegotten youth. There are few darker looks, eyes slanted and assessing as they contemplate the innocence Hobbs exudes. Edmund watches those men closely, his teeth ground together hard as he refrains from chasing them off._

_They choose a new location for the evening, an out-of-the-way corner where Edmund can settle in on a bench with a newspaper. He’s a little disappointed that Jackson is home sick; another evening of him and his harmonica will missed. Abberline takes a seat at a shoe-shine station, and Bennet makes himself scarce, blending in with the other men standing outside a small pub. Twice, someone stops to ask Edmund the time, and he notes the faces, is careful to see if it is the same man each instance. It is not, and only a small part of Edmund is relieved. The other feels stretched too thin by this continued delay._

_It’s Bennet who notices first, and he does a circuit that brings him just behind Edmund. He bends down as though to tie his shoe and whispers,_

_“Short toffer, no beard. Dressed sharp, not like the other night, but it’s the same man. He’s passed by three times now, sir, and in less than thirty minutes.”_

_“Good eye, Sergeant.”_

_Bennet returns to his original post, nodding once at the man in question. Edmund can hear his, ‘Good evening,’ as they pass one another, but the man keeps his eyes forward and makes no show of noticing the greeting. When he reaches the place where Hobbs is half hidden in the shadows, his pace slows. They are too far away for Edmund to hear what is said, but he sees the expression on Hobbs’ face, the look of polite interest that melts into something fear-inducing. Hobbs backs away from the man, stumbles a little as he tries to avoid the hand reaching for him, but is caught by the wrist. He shouts, loud and fearful, and it spurs Edmund into action. He is on his feet in the next instant, can see Abberline leaping out of his chair and Bennet pushing his way through the sudden crowd of people, but he knows—_ knows _—they will be too late._

_A carriage pulls up, unexpected and damning, cutting off Edmund’s line of sight. He hears Bennet shout, sees a man shove Abberline to the ground and realizes they have been made. His gorge rises when the carriage takes off down the street and Hobbs is gone, and Bennet is racing down the street, trying desperately to catch up._

_“Edmund!” Abberline is still down, but he waves frantically toward a carriage coming down the street. In the next second, Edmund is flagging it down and climbing aboard._

_Bennet has the sense to jump aboard when they draw up beside them, leaping not into the carriage, but up into the driver’s seat. Edmund has to lean out the window to hear him demanding control of the horses, and he tightens his grip. They cannot lose the carriage—cannot lose_ Hobbs _—now._

***.*.*.***

There is blood everywhere.

Edmund leans back against an unmarked wall, sweat cooling along the back of his neck. He lets out a long breath, pushes his damp hair off his brow and watches, detached, as Jackson sets aside his tools. Edmund was unaware the surgeon’s kit had been brought with them until Jackson had laid out his tools, a terrifying calm settling over his features. The bone saw had driven Edmund from the room, but he remained close enough to hear Atwater’s pleas for mercy. Now, his body thrums with exhaustion, a continuation of what Jackson must be feeling— _would_ be feeling, were he not so busy carving out his pounds of flesh. 

There is not enough, could never be, not for all the lives this man has cut short, but Edmund is fascinated by just how much there is. The saying is an old one, and he hadn’t considered taking it literally until Jackson cut the first chunk of flesh from Atwater’s body. There is little left to be recognized of the child stealer, and Edmund can feel his stomach twist and clench as he stares on. This kind of cold calculated violence, this level of gore, surpasses even the Ripper, though he will never say as much aloud.

“Are you done, then?”

Jackson glances up, his face smeared with blood, eyes black with too much pupil as they are after Jackson has spent a night indulging. “Just under one hundred and eighty,” he replies. He waves a hand toward the wreckage laid out before him. “If I had my scales, I’d weigh the blood.”

“Were he a fatter man, he could’ve screamed for longer.” Bennet’s gaze is fierce, and Edmund thinks on what he knows of his sergeant, of the past no one speaks of and the life that has made him into the man he is now.

With a sigh Edmund feels all the way down to his bones, he pushes away from the wall. “Gather the children.”

The audience that has been gathering since just after Jackson began to exact his revenge breaks up. The men begin gathering the children; the dead are carefully wrapped, their small bodies carried out by grim-faced constables and vigilantes. Those who are still alive are ushered out with gentle hands to be taken off to the hospital. What physical wounds they have will be tended to, and hopefully, in time, their minds will heal as well. At last, it is just Jackson, Edmund, Bennet and an unconscious Hobbs.

“Let’s get the lad loaded up.” Bennet nods to the last carriage, but makes no move toward it. Edmund is climbing inside when he realizes Bennet is not with him and turns, searching him out. From the window in the back, smoke trickles out into the darkened sky.

“We should not—”

Bennet stares him down. “There’s no one left to face trial, and that house is tainted with the blood of innocents. I’d rather see it burn, sir, than leave such a sight to inspire any others.”

He is right, of course. It was their greatest fear during the Ripper’s escapades, that someone else might think to follow in his footsteps.

“Good thinking,” Edmund says. 

He wants nothing more than to climb into the carriage, settled back against the cushioned interior, but there is enough generosity left in his person to know that Jackson needs the privacy more than anyone else ever could. As Bennet takes the reins, Edmund pulls his aching body up beside him, his thoughts filled of home and Hobbs.

***.*.*.***

_They give chase through the streets, stay just far enough behind that Edmund fears they will lose Hobbs. He wishes he were riding beside Bennet rather than trapped within the confines of the carriage, but he trusts Bennet Drake with all his being. He is sergeant for this reason: he is an extension of Edmund, one with the strength and skill to take down their foe. He is Edmund’s sergeant—he is_ Edmund’s _. When the streets become narrow and dense with people, they lose him. Edmund’s heart clenches tight and painful in his chest, and he fears the worst until Bennet’s voice drifts back, carried on the wind._

_“There’s only one place this road leads to. We’ll get to our boy, don’t you worry, sir, I’ll not let him escape.”_

_Edmund cannot see what is happening, but in the next second, he hears the crack of a gun. Those who had not moved at the sight of the carriage barreling full-tilt down the road now scramble to get out of the way. When he leans out the window once more, the way is clear and he can just make out the back of carriage they chase. It is only as they enter a crumbling rookery long-since abandoned that Edmund realizes where they are._

_“The bastard has been just outside Whitechapel this whole time,” he says. He balls his hands into fists to hide the tremor that runs through his fingers and says nothing when their quarry is no longer in sight. Edmund puts all his faith in Bennet and tells himself they will find this man and they will make him pay for all that he has done. They will be his judge, his jury and, if it comes to it, his executioner._

_Edmund thinks nothing of it when the carriage rolls to stop. It is not until he hears Bennet’s “Oh god, no,” that he becomes aware something is wrong. When he looks out the window, Edmund’s veins fill with ice, his body momentarily gone numb with shock._

_Smoke billows out through the windows, and though he cannot see it, he knows that inside the warehouse before him, a fire is in the process of great devastation. Just like that, Edmund is moving, shoving open the door to the carriage so he can stumble out. Bennet is right behind him as Edmund throws himself against the door, wincing at the throb that passes through his shoulder. The door opens on the second shove and then they are inside, eyes squinted against the thick smoke filling the room, their ears ringing with the screams of the those trapped by the fire._

_What they find chills Edmund to the bone. The warehouse is one wide open space, but long, and tattered curtains hang from the beams, sectioning off the room. The ones furthest from Edmund are half consumed by flames, but he doesn’t need to see to know what lies behind them: beds, poorly crafted and covered in the blood of innocents. Above them are more of the same, and he does not doubt all the occupants there are beyond saving._

_“There’s no savin’ ‘em, sir.” Bennet’s tone is one of heartbreak, and even as he says the words, he attempts to fight his way toward a small fallen body. Something above gives way, and it is all Edmund can do just to pull Bennet back and out of danger._

_“They are too far. Look to our right.”_

_As Bennet moves away, Edmund darts to the left, yanks open the curtain closest to him. A boy not much older than ten cowers there, shrieks and tries to flee when Edmund grabs for him, but puts up little fight once he is captured. Edmund gives him a single sharp shake._

_“Go out through the front. Help will be here soon.” He prays he is right._

_Between the two of them, they save nine boys. Edmund finds a man in one of the rooms, his trousers undone and his shirt stained with his own release. Though it goes against everything Edmund has been trained to uphold, he spares the man no kindness, no mercy. Edmund strikes him once in the face, snatches the boy into his arms and pretends it is not vicious glee that warms his blood when part of the wall caves in, trapping the man and ensuring an unpleasant death._

_From somewhere off to the side, Bennet lets out a victorious shout and comes dashing through the smoke, Hobbs over his shoulder. Relief is swift, and Edmund picks up the boy beside him—just six, Edmund thinks; not yet old enough to know his maths—and follows Bennet outside. Hobbs is unconscious but alive, and Edmund sends up a prayer of thanks. With Hobbs tucked away and safe from the fire, Edmund turns back to the warehouse, determined to save more._

_It is the silence that keeps Edmund from going inside again. No screams means no lives to be saved, and he stares at the flames dancing high in the night sky. A crowd is just beginning to form and the fire brigade is coming down the street._ Too late _, Edmund thinks. He stands, Bennet at his side, and watches as the men work to put out the fire, listens to murmurs of those nearest as they speculate on what has occurred. With the arrival of the constables comes Edmund’s sense of duty, and he shouts out orders, directs his men to the children huddled in the shadows._

_“See that they are taken to a doctor. Do it now, for they are in shock and less likely to fight you. Once they come to themselves, we will want women to tend to them. Let them find their sense of safety and comfort in the hands of people they will instinctively trust.”_

_He is searching for Abberline’s face in the sea of bystanders when a hand grips his shoulder, the fingers biting hard, twisting him away from his men. He doesn’t know what he expects when he turns around, but it isn’t Bennet, shirt in tatters, face flecked with the blood of his enemies and fear writ bright in eyes._

_“There’s no sign of Hobbs, Inspector,” he says._

_Edmund’s eyes fly to the building, to the fire lighting in the early-morning sky, and for just a moment, time stands still. It’s impossible, he tells himself. They pulled Hobbs out and he was unconscious. Surely he would not have woken and gone back inside. But a small part of him whispers,_ what if? _, as though the idea of Hobbs doing just that is likely. Then again, Hobbs nearly lost his life protecting a woman from her would-be kidnappers. His sense of duty rivals even Edmund’s at times._

_“Could he have—?”_

_“It’s possible, sir. Someone thought they saw a boy matching his description going toward the warehouse. What do we do?”_

_They turn as one to stare at the building. If Hobbs is inside, there will be no finding him until the fire has been put out. Edmund does not weep, but it is a near thing._

_“We wait,” Edmund replies, and hates himself for the hopelessness in his voice._

***.*.*.***

They gather to wait at Edmund’s house.

Emily accepts the presence of Bennet and Jackson with a smile, though her lips still tighten when Susan and Rose stop by. She is cordial, though, because that is who Emily is. She would not be Emily otherwise. No one talks about the pillow and blankets piled at the end of the couch, or of the suitcase tucked into the corner of the room, travel-worn and cheaply made. Jackson has not left the house since Hobbs was released into Edmund’s care, but it is no one’s business to comment on, not while he is still raw and vulnerable, uncertain of when Hobbs will wake.

When it happens, they are none of them expecting it. One minute they are seated in the dining room, cups of coffee long gone cold set before them. Then there is a noise at the doorway and all heads turn to find Hobbs standing there on unsteady legs wearing no more than Edmund’s button-down pajama shirt. Everyone goes still, and then it is a flurry of movement.

Jackson is the first to reach him, but when Hobbs flinches away at the contact, his mouth turns down at the corners and he steps back. He lets Emily come forward to guide Hobbs to a chair, and then soup is produced, bread freshly warmed and brought straight from the oven, with a glass of milk to ease it all down. Hobbs blinks at them, dazed, with the echo of pain not yet forgotten shading his eyes. He glances down at his lap and seems to realize just how under dressed he is. His face, already pale, goes white as he catalogues the bruises that stand out in sharp relief, scattered over his thighs and shins, molten still, where they encircle his ankles.

“I should—I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

Jackson lets out a noise that is part grief and all devastation. He takes two steps, evades the hands reaching out to pull him back, and drops to his knees in front of Hobbs. He rests his cheek against a blemished thigh and sobs once—hard and low. Edmund envies him this intimacy, but at the same time also thankful that he can bear witness to it. 

After a few moments of tense silence, Hobbs’ hand makes its way into Jackson’s hair, his fingers trembling as he combs them through the unwashed strands. He pulls a face, his nose wrinkling a tad.

“You need a shower,” he says at last.

Jackson’s shoulders shake. “God damn you, kid,” he grits out. His next words are soft, not meant to be overheard though they reach the ears of everyone in the room. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again. I’ll get a real place, a house with a parlor and a fireplace. Anything you want. Just...” 

_Just don’t leave me_ , he doesn’t say, but they hear it anyway.

Hobbs is quiet for so long, Edmund is all but convinced he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then he lets out the softest of sighs, and his face—still all marked up with bruises—twists into a smile that’s half grimace.

“I’d like that.”


End file.
